Log: Interrogation? More like Interro-GREAT-tion
Today is Dec 12, 2011, Part 2.
<Pose Tracker> Sebastien Ardennais [U] has posed.
The holidays see a great deal of traffic through the Peninsula Sumaru hotel -- mostly of a foreign nature, as the Japanese holidays won't begin in earnest until the new year. Here, a pleasant amalgamation of east and west comes together to spangle the hotel lobby: wreaths with bows and ornaments of silver and gold meet with woven bamboo shapes, oranges, hand-painted luck charms and beautiful folded papercrafts.
The employees are, as always, consummate professionals, and Mitsuru's arrival is met with a gloved hand opening the door of her chauffered vehicle and crisp bow from the valet, who directs her to the front desk, ahead of the line of guests waiting to check in.
Requesting Sebastien does not prompt an arched brow from the person behind the desk -- they're far too restrained for that kind of editorializing -- though there's just enough hesitation before they pick up the phone to dial him to suggest one, in any event.
Setting it down, the young woman relates that Sebastien is home, and will join her in the lobby shortly, and would Mitsuru like to take a seat, and would she like some tea while she waits?
But surely, she won't have time to enjoy tea. Nobody keeps a Kirijo waiting.
...except that someone, clearly, does.
Minutes pass. Then tens of minutes. The staff grow increasingly uncomfortable. It isn't precisely their fault that Sebastien is leaving /Mitsuru Kirijo/ to rot in their well-appointed lobby, but they seem to take his failings onto themselves in some way; checking, Mitsuru might be told that the desk clerk has called upstairs twice more since she arrived, and neither time received an answer. Couples stream into and out of the lobby. The line of check-ins grows, shrinks, disappears, and grows again, all in the time that the ojou is kept waiting.
Thirty minutes.
Forty-five, in fact, if Mitusuru deigns to wait that long.
<Pose Tracker> Mitsuru Kirijo [SEES] has posed.
The western holiday of Christmas is one that's captured the Japanese imagination but their celebration of it is more that 'it's a holiday' rather than one of any major importance. Still, the decorations are nice and Mitsuru always enjoys looking at them in the places where they can be found. She also enjoys visiting Peninsula Sumaru. It is Naomi's 'home' after all.
She inclines her head slightly at the valet, heeled boots emerging from the car first before standing. She's dressed for the crisp winter in a warm woolen peacoat and pale grey-blue woolen slacks. The young woman looks to the front desk, readjusts her purse and starts forward. Those at the front desk should hopefully be familiar with her. She's come by every so often to ask for the Spencers (though not often enough perhaps). But she did struggle slightly with Sebastian's family name. Fortunately, they understood.
So she's left to wait. And wait. And wait some more. She shifts from sitting to standing, walking while sipping tea. She is polite to the staff but grows progressively cooler as the minutes tick by. At thirty minutes, her lips are pressed into a thin line. At 45, she finally asks for his room number and makes her way to the elevator. If anyone dares to stop her, she will simply give him an icy expression and a firm but polite rebuff.
What sort of gentlemen keeps a lady waiting after all? But.. then again.. he's Shadow Possessed and they are a tricky sort. She just hopes he's not using this time to escape through a window. If she has to call Fuuka and use her to find him, she will be /very/ unhappy. It's these thoughts that keep with her until she reaches the appropriate floor and starts walking down the hall until the numbers count up to the right suite.
She knocks once. Twice and then clears her through. "Ardennais-san, I know you're in there," the young ojou states firmly. "You can't hide from me." She might be bluffing but even so, she is extending Penthesilea's senses as far as her limited powers can go.
<Pose Tracker> Sebastien Ardennais [U] has posed.
'You can't hide--'
In the space between 'hide' and 'from', Sebastien opens the door, an expression of lid-eyed boredom dominant on his sly face. "I'm not interested, Miyu-chan," he's already saying, in absolutely pristine Japanese, "And I thought I made that--"
And then he gets a look at his visitor. Hand on the inside handle of his door, blue eyes locked to the redhead's dominating presence, his expression follows a smooth transition from dismissive boredom to something less easy to identify by any single name: restrained, almost feline interest, perhaps, touched by something like amusement that simmers in the background. His slim person tilts slowly, settling against the doorframe in a lazy, slung curve of the torso -- a slacker's lean so practiced that it only appears effortless -- and as his weight settles and his head tilts, he emanates intensity that his subdued, subtle expression can't wholly explain. Something toys with the shape of his lips, but never resolves itself fully...a zephyr of an unborn smile, tied somehow to the energy that seems to crackle and hum about him, even in stillness.
"...clear," he finishes softly, studying her, as though he were unaware of completing his own sentence.
"Hello."
<Pose Tracker> Mitsuru Kirijo [SEES] has posed.
And there he is, the rogue himself. Normally, Mitsuru is careful with expressing her emotions. She was brought up as a proper young ojou. Practice restraint, keep your thoughts private, burden only yourself and never other, keep your face as still as a winter lake. But she's been left waiting for 45 minutes and he called her "M-miyu-chan?!" She sounds astonished, a crimson blush already starting to creep into her pale skin. "J-just who did you think you were leaving waiting down in the lobby?"
Better question, what the hell did the front desk tell him?!
She takes a deep breath, something to calm her nerves. There's something about his expression that doesn't sit well with her. Something almost predatory but maybe that's just her imagination. So let's start over. "Good day Ardennais-san," her tone is even, the heat of the moment already repressed and locked up in a box to be explored later. Her head tilts slightly, "I hope I'm not interrupting something important." Her cheeks flare slightly again. 'Like your time with another woman,' the thought comes unbidden to mind. But she knows better than to actually say something like that. They don't have a relationship after all, neither does he have one with Naomi. At least not 'that' kind of relationship. "If you have the time, I would like to speak with with you about something." To Mitsuru's credit, she doesn't gesture. But she does look like she's not going anywhere until Sebastian gives in.
<Pose Tracker> Sebastien Ardennais [U] has posed.
Her exclamation wins her a slight widening of his smile, and after that fractional increase it continues to slowly grow, his head tilting until it rests lightly against the frame of the door. One might get the impression that he isn't listening, in fact, because that unconscious fueling of his expression seems entirely unrelated to anything coming out of her mouth, and the way he's looking at her has something of the bewitched about it, as though he'd been struck dumb -- as though she were a particularly astonishing painting in a museum, and he the visiting patron, taken wholly aback by her beauty.
And maybe this is true. There are three silent seconds after she finishes talking during which he doesn't stir...
And then, all at once, he does.
He straightens, draws a breath, and takes three lazy steps backward, drawing the door with him and offering her not the precise forward snapping of a Japanese bow, but the very slight inclination of his torso, fingertips touched in a light splay across the flat of his sternum, that one might receive in the company of European aristocracy -- eyes up and gaze held, and never a moment's failure of his intrigued air, though the smile itself subdues, merely a ghost of a promise.
"Mademoiselle, for you? I'll find the time. Please, come in. You have my sincerest apologies; at times I still struggle with understanding Japanese over the phone. Please, forgive me. Had I known..." The corner of his mouth quirks, and his eyes glitter. "Mais...to what do I owe the distinct and unanticipated pleasure of your visit, miss...?"
<Pose Tracker> Mitsuru Kirijo [SEES] has posed.
There's something about the way Sebastian tips his head, the way he stands and that bewitched expression on his face that makes Mitsuru feel vaguely uneasy. She's used to being looked at, admired but this feels different. For her, those three silent seconds seem to stretch into eternity and she wonders if there's something wrong. If he being charmingly insolent, the kind of insolence that Shinjiro perfected, she could deal with that. Not this.
But the foreigner is moving away now, bowing in a way she recognizes from the few weeks she spent in London. The way he flirts buts her back into the presence and lets the ojou find herself again. His excuses about the 'language' makes her lips press into a thin line. He was speaking perfect Japanese just a moment ago but she's too polite to point out the 'error' of his words.
Instead, Mitsuru finds herself steeping in and past the smirking Sebastien. "I am Mitsuru Kirijo, Naomi's friend. We met.. once. In person at least." And what she saw disturbed her.
Once past the threshold, she begins glancing about for a pair of house slippers even as she manages to balance herself perfectly upon one foot and then the other as boots are stripped. "I wanted to talk to you about..." Her voice trails off and she thinks. How does one approach the subject of being 'Shadow Possessed'? That's why she's here after all. "Your condition." It's a lame conclusion to the sentence but the most delicate word she can think of.
<Pose Tracker> Sebastien Ardennais [U] has posed.
There are slippers here, of course, and a stand for guest shoes -- including one for boots taller than one expects Sebastien ever wears, himself, which suggests that he entertains female company often enough to have invested in one, which in turn suggests that Mitsuru's earlier thought regarding the possibility of interrupting him with company of that stripe was perhaps not wide of the mark, speaking realistically.
The suite into which she steps is smaller than many of the others on this floor, just below the penthouse level, but certainly very well-appointed. Quite apart from the fact that it smells faintly of his cologne and aftershave -- both of which are warm scents, and of a quality indicative of no little expense -- the rest of the standard-issue hotel furniture (upholstered in cream) is well-nigh lost within a bevy of more interesting personal items. The livingroom into which he leads her is dominated by the shelves that flank either side of the entertainment center, and these bear up a wealth of books and other curios, most of them acquired since his arrival, but not all: the books themselves come in more languages than one has fingers to count them on, and they're accompanied by a number of rolled items -- one might suspect posters, were it not for the framed, hand-drawn-in-the-feudal-era map of Japan that takes up a place of pride on one of the walls opposite, between the doors that lead to the bedroom and the kitchenette. Films of every imaginable sort populate the entertainment center itself. Gaming consoles weigh down the enclosed shelves beneath the television. A bass guitar in a soft case leans against a far wall beside an amplifier, but the flat, wall-mounted stereo is piping Mozart's Requiem into the room so softly that it can barely be heard. What art objects he's situated on tables and shelves -- pottery, particularly chawan, and the like -- all demonstrate a sophisticated aesthetic sense, each one a unique contemplation on a theme.
He watches her step in, and slowly closes the door behind her, soundlessly engaging it with the frame. Only once she's stepped out of the short hallway does he follow her -- to avoid crowding into her personal space -- and after gesturing wordlessly at the sitting area that forms the center of the living room, with its expansive views of Sumaru below in the far floor-to-ceiling window, he makes his way unhurriedly to the sidebar below the framed map to prepare his guest a drink.
"Ah," mouths the Belgian soundlessly. Turning his head, he grants her view of the slight arch of one of his brows, though his eyes remain on his task: deft, long-fingered and broad-palmed hands make short work of snapping glasses from where they sit, stoppers from decanters, pitchers from repose. There are excellent vintages on display, but he's opted, perhaps wisely, for hot tea. "Naomi did warn me that some people might take exception to me, though you'll understand that I had no notion that there was anything wrong with the way things were until I arrived here. Of course...living here, enjoying the hospitality of your /fascinating/ country..." He takes up the small tray and turns back to her, setting it down on the coffee table before glancing up at her again, brows lofted enough to convey playful humor, subtle understatement. "Well. You can imagine why it might be difficult for me to believe, even now. Mais non, you have concerns."
<Pose Tracker> Mitsuru Kirijo [SEES] has posed.
Mitsuru is many things, innocent amongst them, so she doesn't seem to think too hard nor find anything /too/ unusual about the fact that his stand is capable of accommodating even her thigh high boots. The implications will catch up to her when it's too late for her to do something about or at the most awkward of moments. She's just relieved that even though he's obviously a foreigner, he understands the need for guest slippers. Stocking feet now securely enclosed in protective slippers, she begins to make her way deeper into the apartment/hotel suite.
It surprises her to find so much /media/. It's like he surrounds himself in it. A part of her mind, the part that is always analyzing, is already starting to form the framework of how she should deal with such a man. He seems to be the kind who enjoys losing himself in something else, movies, books, art. But also someone with impeccable and sophisticated tastes. Knowing what the Spencers specialize in, perhaps it's not so surprising that they would employ a man like this.
The Kirijo heiress makes her way to the gestured sitting area but once there, she doesn't quite take her eyes off the man himself. Her brow arches at the sight of all those wines and she sincerely hopes he doesn't offer her any. To her relief, he's opting for tea. "Japan is an interesting country," she allows even as she takes her seat on and upholstered couch. "And Naomi was right to warn you." She smiles faintly, but not with much humor.
Surprisingly straight forward for a woman of her standing, she cuts simply to the heart of why she's here. "I saw how you changed, become a fox." The smile turns into the faintest of frown, the only indication of worry she's willing to offer to this near stranger at the moment. "I want to know your intentions. That is all." Is he another Kyo Enda? Or is he simply misguided?
<Pose Tracker> Sebastien Ardennais [U] has posed.
"Yes, it's quite something, isn't it?" Her lack of humor doesn't seem to give him any pause whatsoever; he's blithe as he pours the tea for her, and then for himself...and then seats himself on the sofa beside her, rather than in an adjacent chair. But his accent, though impeccably restrained, is French -- and they're very casual about personal space, aren't they?
She frowns, and his smile gains several fractional degrees of upward tilt, though it laces itself through with understanding -- almost allowance. If one could apply noblesse oblige to matters of supernatural diplomacy, that would be precisely the look -- that one, with the mellow confidence that saturates his every last inch. His posture straddles the line between too-casual and formality in some manner difficult to ascertain; though he leans back into the sofa's corner, and arrays one arm along its back, his every gesture is calculated enough to elevate him to an appearance of propriety.
These dichotomies, she may learn with time -- contradictions dwelling cooperatively in his person -- are character-defining.
"I'm sure she'd be delighted to know that you agree," he murmurs, with a spark of private wryness in pale blue-grey eyes.
When she poses her query, his brows jump upward on his crow, and he laughs. His smile in full is a sharp, hard, bright crescent of perfect white, and it lights up his entire person, rather than just his face. "My-- my /intentions/? I think you do me too much credit, ma petite. I don't know what you may have heard, or from whom, but I'm here rather against my choosing. I'm happy to share the sordid history with you, but I hesitate to bore you with the details against your will." He brings the teacup to his lips, then hesitates with it hovering there, one brow creeping upward above the height of its match. "Unless you meant my intentions with regard to you, specifically?" The look of reserved query remains after he sips and lowers his cup again.
<Pose Tracker> Mitsuru Kirijo [SEES] has posed.
When Sebastien decides to sit /right there/ next to her, Mitsuru has to resist the urge to scoot slightly to the side. She is familiar enough with Western culture to remember and recognize that they are more.. intimate than the Japanese. But he's smiling at her expenses and this is making her feel slightly more uneasy, slightly more on edge.
She knows the smile he wears and she is.. envious of him. To allow himself to appear so casual, so confident as to be effectively non-concerned. That is a luxury that can only come from being a Westerner. But she can smell a trap. No one is that casual, that smooth. Not without something darker lurking underneath. He wouldn't be Shadow Possessed if that wasn't true.
Her lips remain pressed in a thin line when he finds something amusing about her agreeing with Naomi. "What's so funn-" but then he's smiling like that and she maybe Mitsuru Kirijo, the Ice Queen of Port Island, but she's also female. There's a flush of heat that rises unbidden to her cheeks again. "..."
Dark eyes avert slightly to the aside, almost as if embarrassed to look him straight in the eyes. "Yes, your intentions." She repeats again. But he forces her to look back, eyes wide and body jerking back, startled and not quite sure what to say. Mitsuru's jaw opens, closes and eventually she manages in a rather undignified squeak, "I.. I did not mean that at all! I simply.. I simply meant what sort of..."
Congratulations Sebastien. You have successfully thrown Mitsuru Kirijo off her groove.
<Pose Tracker> Sebastien Ardennais [U] has posed.
Again, something understanding bleeds its way into his expression, and though he smiles -- he is absolutely unabashed -- he does summon up a thread of apology to go alongside the simmering humor that seethes just below the surface of his every expression.
"Then I won't trouble you with it," is his softly-spoken answer. Not 'I don't have any' -- just that he won't direct the conversation down that particular avenue, presumably out of deference to her wishes.
Presumably.
His mood is capable of turning on a dime. Eyes narrowed on her pensively, he reanimates with the crisp suddenness he exhibited in the doorway, rolling smoothly to his feet and setting his still-full cup of tea down on the tray in order to move toward the window. He crosses his arms, but folds his hands beneath his biceps, against his ribs, and props his thumbs upward -- high on his chest, as though he were cold. Sumaru spreads out below, rolling toward the distant grey line of the winter sea.
In counterpoint to the intimate tone of voice moments before, he speaks briskly now, his demeanor matter-of-fact, if perhaps gentled by ruminative memory.
"Well, where to begin, really. I was born in the Ardennes mountains of Belgium -- you'll note that 'Ardennais' is a truncation of 'desArdennais' -- and my full name is Felix Gilles Sebastien Gabriel desArdennais. Pretentious, isn't it? And well it should be. That many names is indicative only of one thing: /nobility/."
It might have been bragging, but he says the word with a slight curl of the lip that's close to a sneer, and derision coils about the low delivery of the word. "If you were to examine my..." Pause. It takes him no more than a second to mentally locate the word he's looking for in Japanese. "...pedigree, you'd discover that desArdennais is only technically different from de Broqueville...and if you have a head for European aristocracy, you might recall that our line once furnished Belgium with two prime ministers...both of them the same man. A direct ancestor. Our line holds an option on the position of Count."
Here he shakes his head, minutely, and tilts into the wall, his rapid-fire monologue terminated in a soft, almost silent exhalation through the nose -- mostly visible in the fogging up of the glass in front of him. "None of which," he continues in a murmur more like his earlier discourse with her, "means the least bit to me." Sidelong, he fixes her with one stark blue eye, and then turns it back toward the skyline. "Being a friend of Naomi Spencer's, and having the last name 'Kirijo,' I imagine that you're in a position to understand what I mean when I say that there are certain obligations I've been made to obey all of my life...and the saddle of my predestination as dutiful son has always...chafed. Why should I resign myself to a life of an agrarian magnate when there is an entire world, far more interesting, out there? Outside of the same dull, frozen mountains? But what choice did I have? I was the third child, but the only /son/."
After a pause, he smirks. "All of that changed for me in sixth form at Westminster school. I...changed. You know what I mean. Suddenly, all of my self-sacrifice seemed unbearable to me. Life is short. My eldest sister and I feuded ceaselessly: she wanted what my parents had determined would only belong to me, though I had little desire for it -- and I ask you, how was that fair to either of us? It wasn't. So yes, I began to feel less inclined to obey their every last mandate. They thought it an absolute scandal. Pulled me out of the school. They thought I'd gone mad, just because I didn't roll over at their every whim anymore."
"One of my father's oldest friends happened to have an upstanding young daughter, living in Japan -- a country /famous/ for its personal restraint. No doubt they believed that sending me here, placing me on a lean stipend, and letting Spencer run my life would open my eyes to my wrongs, put me back on the path of obedience."
He pauses, and glances at her, quirking a brow. He speaks softly. "What do you think, Kirijo-san? Will it teach me to behave?"
[OOC] Mitsuru Kirijo stares at that last line
[OOC] Sebastien Ardennais says, "Hahahaha"
[OOC] Sebastien Ardennais says, "(the answer is 'no')"
<Pose Tracker> Mitsuru Kirijo [SEES] has posed.
Even if she didn't ask for his story, it seems like Mitsuru is going to get it. That scrap of an apology in his expression is enough to smooth over a few ruffled feathers. But.. what did he mean 'I won't trouble you with it'? Troubled frowns are an all too familiar expression for the young Ojou and it won't be one she wears out anytime soon. But, she sits and listens to Sebastian tale of familial obligations respectfully, seriously. The tea isn't wasted however. She merely sips slowly as she listens.
Nobility. Like Naomi's nobility then. It would explain how he knows her. They would have traveled in the same social circles back in Europe. Well, assuming that Belgian nobility and English nobility even traveled in the same social circles. But when he looks to her, when he expresses how he chaffed under his family's wishes, what can she say? She does understand, all too well. Her head bows slightly. 'At least you're lucky,' she wants to say. 'Even being the only son and thus the heir, you still have /some/ control over your life.' But she bites her tongue.
Instead she looks at him, a curious expression that mixes admiration and admonishment. "If they thought that sending you to Japan would teach you self-restraint, they thought wrong." Her tone is cool, diplomatic even but there's an underlying note of wariness. "Being Japanese, we are taught from birth to think of the well-being of the group before our own well-being. We are trained to understand that we have a duty to society and everyone has their role to play."
Her lips quirk slightly, "It is a very disciplined way to live. If you have not already learned that restraint, you won't learn it here. And while I love the Spencers dearly, you won't learn it from them either." Both Niles and Naomi are simply too independent. And in a way, she envies them for that. "So that explains why you are here but not how you ended up... possessed."
<Pose Tracker> Sebastien Ardennais [U] has posed.
"Oh, you misunderstand me, belle," Sebastien says with sudden and absolute seriousness. He unfolds his arms and turns where he stands, facing her even as he leans back against the window, trusting his whole weight to two panes of glass, some double-tens of storeys above the pavements below. "I learned it. You would not have found a more dutiful heir in all of Belgium had you spent all of your family's vast fortunes in the search. I loathed it, but I embodied it wholly. And then..."
He slides his hands into his jean pockets, purses his lips, and very slightly tilts his head, slanting his gaze toward the shelves, though one may get the impression he doesn't see them at all. "...I rejected it."
This pause is longer, and followed by a tilt of the hips and backward push of his shoulders that levers him up off of the window, testing the tensile strength of the glass in ways that would doubtless give his mother more than a few white hairs. "Anyway, I don't know what you mean, with your last question. When I changed, this is how things were. I had no conception that things ought to have been otherwise until I went home and spoke to my sister, and learned that her...change...looked like something entirely different. Even then, I had no real way of knowing; we didn't understand what had happened to us. There was no one around to explain. For all we knew, those differences were normal, akin to having different fingerprints."
<Pose Tracker> Mitsuru Kirijo [SEES] has posed.
'You misunderstood me'. Mitsuru presses her lips. Did she misread something? Ah. That's what she misread. A part of her envies Sebastien. He found the courage to break free of the chains that bound him. Of course, the net result of that seems to be enmity between siblings and effective exile to Japan. And perhaps /that/ is what is truly freeing.
It's something to think over. Even she had her own little rebellion didn't she? She purchased that motorcycle the moment she turned 16 and now she rides, much to her father's worry, a much bigger and more powerful one.
The ojou sips thoughtfully at her tea, not quite disturbed by how he pushes at the glass. She lives in a dorm full of Persona users. Most of them have probably tried to do the same or managed to actually succeed in breaking a window before someone at the Labs had the brilliant idea to replace all of them with something sturdier than just plain glass.
But as he talks about 'change', her mouth opens and then shuts again. Oh. That kind of change. "People change with time, with their surroundings. You said it yourself, she thought it was terribly unfair that you would get all the glory for being the son while she would be relegated to a different kind of life, a lesser life despite being the first born. If I were your sister, I would imagine that I would be rather relieved but..." Her head shakes, "And what about your other sister? The younger one? What did she think of all this?"
<Pose Tracker> Sebastien Ardennais [U] has posed.
Whatever he expected of his unexpected guest, an inquiry as to the thoughts of his /other/ sister was not on the list. For a moment he appears taken aback...just slightly tilted enough off of his expectations to provide her with a more candid sort of reply, still self-confident, but without the blase offhandedness that marks most of his conversation.
"Anette..." Bringing up one hand, he cups his chin, rubbing his fingers over his clean-shaven jaw, and although he's en route back to the couch, he takes an unhurried route, passing in front of the shelves and straightening book spines absently...though they're already fastidiously neat. As he continues, the corner of his mouth takes on a different sort of curl -- one that's absent, and softer; it pairs well with the unthinking affection that expresses genuinely in his tone of voice. "Anette and I are close. She understands how I feel, and is...mute as to her opinions of my choices. She supports my desire to live as I wish, but as you might imagine, family matters are complicated, and she understands that my choices hurt my parents, however well-justified."
As he pivots to return to the sofa and sink down onto the edge of it beside her, all of that tenderness disappears -- as though he realized that he'd exposed a part of himself he had not intended to, and swept those private feelings away, out of sight.
Instead, some of his wryness takes its place, and it's there in the gaze that searches out the Kirijo heiress' own. "So. Does that answer your questions? Have you found what it was you came looking for?"
<Pose Tracker> Mitsuru Kirijo [SEES] has posed.
It seems to Mitsuru that inquiring about the third sibling, the one stuck between the rivalry of the other two, is a logical question. But perhaps that is her own unique place as both an only child and as the 'peacekeeper' between a younger Akihiko and Shinjiro. The change in his behavior, a show of true emotion assures her that Sebastien isn't like Kyo. If there's something 'wrong' with him, it's not immediately obvious.
If anything, his hedonistic attitude may be the source of why he's Possessed. She sips her tea and watches him sit. When he looks, Mitsuru meets his gaze head on and shakes her head. "Not.. entirely. I had thought to ask just how you ended up possessed by a Shadow and what you intend to do with such power but.. I think I have a measure of you as a person now. I will be keeping my eye on you Ardennais-san." She pauses, "And I would continue to be careful if I were you. I know you do not need me to remind you that those with our special... abilities can be easily persecuted."
The heiress puts her tea cup down on the table before she rises to her feet. "But thank you for the tea and for your story." She reaches for her purse and after a moment, pulls out a small card case and then offers a business card. "My contact information. Naomi knows how to find me but if you find yourself.. stuck. Lost even perhaps and Naomi cannot be reached, please call me." After all, she's got a phone that works in the Dark Hour. Sadly, her friend does not.
She looks about and her gaze turns slightly towards the bedroom before coughing once in mild embarrassment. "Forgive me if I interrupted something. I simply wanted to get a measure of what sort of man changes into a giant fox during the middle of a fight. That is all. I will leave you to your... activities." Whatever it was that caused him to /ignore/ her for 45 minutes.
<Pose Tracker> Sebastien Ardennais [U] has posed.
Unlike most eastern bedrooms, the door to Sebastien's is standing wide open, and though the lights in it are off, the window sheds a faint, misty grey light on the interior, and it's quite apparent that the room is empty, the bed made. Her host doesn't follow her gaze, but when she ticks it back toward him, he's wearing that look again -- the one with the haunting threat of a smile that seems to glint sharply in his eyes rather than making its way down to his lips.
When she rises, he does as well, and he makes a proper examination of her business card, accepting it with both hands and every nuance of proper Japanese etiquette. As he withdraws his wallet from his back pocket and slides it in neatly behind what may be a surprising number of other cards, he studies her with eyes that seem never to lose a single detail, sharp and active.
"I'm always careful," he promises, in direct contrast with his reckless lean against the window some moments earlier. It might be a lie -- but he seems to believe it, and that leaves open the question of what sort of calculated cautions he's referring to. "But I appreciate your offer. Being a foreigner in Sumaru is not always easy; I'm always appreciative of friendly acquaintences."
He tucks the wallet away and half-turns toward the door, then -- after a slight hesitation -- turns back to her, dipping his chin and looking down at the ground. When his eyes lift they're slightly narrowed with pensive scrutiny, bright beneath his brows, and his smile walks the line between coy and ruefully amused, his tone situated somewhere in the realms of quiet intimacy -- the sort of voice one would use to share confidences with a friend.
"Let me take you to dinner sometime," he says, rather simply.
<Pose Tracker> Mitsuru Kirijo [SEES] has posed.
Every time Sebastien gets that look, that hint of a smile, Mitsuru feels like somehow he's teasing her. She's not entirely sure how she feels about it. Should she be amused or should she be annoyed? It's a little bit of both and thus she just ignores the feelings and will inspect them later. But the sharp look makes her draw back a little, makes her wary of this young man.
Naomi certainly has her hands full of she has to wrangle /him/.
"Come by the Dorm sometime with Naomi. I will introduce you to Shinjiro and the rest of SEES." Her children. Her band of misfits. "Perhaps you will find yourself with more than you wished for." She smiles faintly and follows him towards the door so she can retrieve her boot. But then there's that look, one that makes her back stiffen slightly and fingers curl defensively around her purse.
It's.. a dinner invite. But with /that/ expression? She frowns slowly. "I will.. consider it." Maybe with a chaperone in tow. And after she's run the idea by Seiichi. It would hardly be fair to him if she accepted the dinner invitation of another man without getting his okay first. That's how it's done right?
Such a kept woman.
With that, she'll slip on her boots and make her way back down the elevator and go about the rest of her business in the city proper.
